


Night and Turquoise

by Teawithmagician



Category: Body of Lies (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Family Drama, Love/Hate, Polygamy, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teawithmagician/pseuds/Teawithmagician
Summary: “Hani Salaam's weakness is that he loves his younger wife more than he should,” Hoffman says, finishing his fries. Ketchup drops on his beard, Hoffman wipes it with a napkin.





	Night and Turquoise

**Author's Note:**

> Bigamy, disturbing topics.

“Hani Salaam's weakness is that he loves his younger wife more than he should,” Hoffman says, finishing his fries. Ketchup drops on his beard, Hoffman wipes it with a napkin.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Cabinet door opens, Ferris stands up, but it's not Hani, it's a woman in a green dress. She has chestnut hair, her face is nice but roughly shaped with broad cheekbones and nose, wide dark brows and pointy chin. She holds porcelain cup with a golden edging on a tiny saucer. Once she approaches, she puts it onto the coffee-table before Ferris.  
  
– Hani will come soon, – she says with an easy smile. She smiles like she is really pleased to see Ferris, and he is sure she doesn't know even know who he is. – You are American. Are you from Boston?  
  
– No, not at all, – Ferris is taken aback a little, he pulls himself together quickly. She must be important for Hani, otherwise, what does she do in his house? A secretary, a secret lover? Not a thing Hani would show in the eyes of an agent.   
  
– Strange, – she sits in the armchair next to him, crosses her legs. Under the Jordanian dress, she wears loose silk trousers, just like a woman from the commercial Ferris saw on the flight from the USA. – I used to distinguish American accents quickly. I was sure you were from Boston.  
  
– I've been to Boston, but I am not local for the city. Definitely, – Ferris smiles briefly. She crosses her hands on her knee, there's a golden ring with a ligature on her finger.   
  
– I've been to Boston too, – she nods. Her bang flickers, the rest of heavy chestnut hair lies still. – A nice city. With a tea-problems, I assume. You and your friends must be on bad terms with tea, that's why I asked the cook to brew coffee.  
  
Ferris is not sure about what she knows, her looks are lively and curious, but her words make him brace himself up. He doesn't like the feeling but keeps smiling. She keeps smiling, too, with a polite smile of a person who is accustomed to observation. Yet her eyes are too lively for an observer, they are like shiny black balls, jumping on Ferris and stomping him into the guess-work.  
  
The red door squeaks. Hani comes in with a cigar in his hand. He's off his jacket, in a white shirt, his dark suspenders are showing, they are nearly of the same color with his tie. At home, he looks like he is going to a vintage party. He looks at the woman silently as she watches Ferris over the cup of coffee he sips. She feels Hani's look and turns back.  
  
– Thank you, Leila, – Hani says.   
  
– I brought coffee to your guest. And your lighter to you.  
  
Woman gets up from the armchair, dragging something from the pocket of her trousers. Their fingers touch, her fingers slide up his hand, leaving a golden lighter in the center of his palm. Hani doesn't look after her as she walks away, but Ferris knows he actually is, not turning his head but watching her with the corner of his eye.   
  
He knows it because he did the same while his wife still loved him. And he still loved her.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“He got his first wife from his parents. They chose her to match their family status and stuff,” Ferris heavily breaths, he's angry. “He chose second by himself. Fuck this, this ain't help me coming back. Hani kicked me out of the country because of you.”  
  
“Because of me? Buddy, he kicked you because of you. It's your job to fix it,” Hoffman looks amused. “Tell me, how much did you learn from your father?”  
  
“What?” Ferris flares up.  
  
“Hani's father was among the few persons in Amman to buy an automobile. One of the first in the country, Austin-Healey. His father studied in England, he sent his elder son to study in England, too. Your father's education was the war in the Gulf. Do you remember Gulf stuff after your old man? As well as Hani remembers English stuff after his old man.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Istanbul ferry trails across Bosphorus slowly. The sky is covered with clouds so thin they look like cobwebs, clouds drag after the ferry, muffling the daylight. A man dressed-up English swell and a woman dressed-up reservedly French stand at the railing, looking at each other in a relaxed silence.  
  
“Kemal Ataturk did a lot for his country,” the man breaks the silence. “I would mention him among my favorite politicians. He did what was absolutely necessary for the beginning of the twentieth century, divided secular affairs, and religion.”  
  
“He did the same king Hussein did,” woman agrees. Her bang is flickering in the wind, heavy dark hair rests on the shoulder, like a sleeping snake. “I wouldn't be able to study the things I'm interested in and do my job if not him.”  
  
“Your job would be reduced to bringing coffee to your father,” the man abuts his elbow into the railing. Wind makes a hard blow in his face, it makes him gasp. She laughs shortly, he proceeds as though nothing has happened. “I admit, it would be a pity if I never met you or acknowledged your wittiness because you were forced to stay at your family's home.”  
  
“Hani Pasha,” she makes a wide embarrassed smile. She has a big mouth and she is not pretty when she smiles, but her eyes are shining, and the man gives her smile back, straightening up at the railing. “Men use to say women are strong with their obedience. I thought and I tried to remember a woman who had taken over anything with it.”  
  
“Did you succeed?” the man chuckles, and the woman responds swiftly, as though she was waiting for the question.  
  
“No. Do you think I should make a broader research? I'm afraid if I do I will lose my job. The report is not going to be conservative enough. It can cause a problem.”  
  
“I think you wouldn't fit for this position if you were more conservative, my dear,” he takes off his glove and touches her hand, red with autumn cold.  
  
She starts, and smiles, and look at him as though he is a firework, and she is a child, enchanted by it. With that look on her face, his face enlightens. Tenderness in his eyes and softness in his smile makes him look younger, nearly of her age despite the greyness on his temples.  
  
"The Prophet advised the men to tell their wives and daughters, and the women of faithful men to cover their faces, so they would be easier to recognize and avoid insults," the man says, caressing her hand. She shoves her finger between his fingers, and he pulls her arm, pressing it to his chest.  
  
"Do you want to put a burka on me, Hani Pasha?" she asks inquisitively.   
  
"And do you want me to?" he asks in response. She licks her lips, reclining her bang from her forehead.   
  
"I admire you, this is so easy to notice," she confesses, gasping from the wind which changes the direction, tearing the hats from the passenger's heads, playing with her hair, heavy but not enough to resist the wind. "But if you are one of the men who in their heart want women to be spared of their voices and beliefs, my admiration will suffer from it."  
  
The man looks surprised. He gives the woman long interested look, as she turns her face to the waves, fighting with her hair. The wind finishes the attack as swiftly as it starts it, so her hair falls on her shoulders like a wild stack of hay. She shakes her head, flipping her hair, yet they don't move.  
  
The man lets go of her hand and touches her hair, moving them from her face, She tucks long side locks behind her ears, looking at him in slight anticipation.  
  
"I value you high, my dear," he explains, unwillingly moving his hand away from her hair. "First of all, because you don't want to be adviced to hide. What can be far from the definition of a good Muslim wife, as far as I can possibly be from the definition of a good Muslim man."  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Leila means night, and Firuze means turquoise,” Hoffman yawns. “Sounds funnier than Conny and Molly, the result is same. Soon after marriage, Hani wanted a divorce. Nobody stated anything officially, but among high-ranking Jordanian families it was no secret.”  
  
“I wonder, why.” Ferris crosses arms on his chest. “I wouldn't stick into it if you didn't tell me it was a good idea. To know more about Hani and his close ones. So, now you tell me.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Leila sits on the bed and reads, her hands still in the bridal henna. There is a tray on the bed and two cups of coffee with milk on it. Hani walks out of the bathroom in a bathrobe, drying his hair with a towel, he slows down when walking past Leila. He stops looks at her in caramel morning light, Leila feels his look and tucks her hair behind the ear.  
  
“Are you bored, habibi?” she asks, turning the page. Hani shakes his head.  
  
“No. I'm watching you. It's amusing.”  
  
“Why?” Leila raises her head, the book lies open on her lap. Hani comes closer and stands on his knees before the bed, his elbows on the blanket, he puts his palms on Leila's knees and nods to the tray.  
  
“I've noticed it were two French toasts when I went to shower. Now I can see no toasts at all.”  
  
“You've mistaken,” Leila laughs. “There were no toasts. You don't like sweet pastries anyway.”  
  
“I like you. You are sweet enough for me, ayuni,” Hani stands up and kisses Leila, Leila embraces him eagerly. He throws the towel on the carpet and gets on the bed, he touches Leila and kisses her, her hair, her face, her neck and her collarbones, his hands under her bathrobe.  
  
There's no need to hurry, he slides between her hips, bending the flaps of her robe. Leila throws her hands behind her head, giggling, she bites his lips and kisses his cheeks. He chuckles and kisses her until she suddenly squeaks and freezes underneath.   
  
"Don't," she whispers. Hani tilts his ear to her mouth, moving slowly, her head between her elbows. "Don't,' she repeats, and she slows down to the full stop.  
  
"You don't want me anymore?" he asks, breathing intermittently, his eyes clouded. He collects himself together with an effort for next few words, "This... this must be heartbreaking."  
  
"No," Leila sighs, looking at him from under her half-closed eyelashes. "Don't be tender. Do it like you own me."  
  
"And you," he frees one of his hand and circles her mouth, pressing fingers to her lips. Leila opens her mouth and sucks Hani's fingers, loudly, glaringly, making the saliva slurping inside. "You don't like to be owned," he whispers, covering her with her body.   
  
It gives him a shiver when she spits his fingers out and says, "I may want in in bed." Her lips are wet, Hani kisses her hard, biting her lower lips so she hollers shortly. He presses her lips into the mattress and Leila yields, spreading her legs wider.  
  
When it's over, Leila presses his head to her chest, kissing him into the top of the head. Hani outstretches one hand and upends the books Leila dropped from her lap. He touches the embossed title with his finger, as Leila tousles his hair, pressing her cheek against his forehead.  
  
“If you like this book you should read it to me aloud,” he says, yawning. "Your voice is like a honey, it makes me forget everything I want to. Will you read me aloud, my love? I want it today, after the breakfast. The real one."  
  
“I don't like reading aloud,” Leila strokes Hani's hair thoughtfully, trying to embrace as much of his back and shoulders as she can. “I can give it to you once I finish, so you will read it if you have time. When I'm back to the service, I have no time for reading. What about that, habibi?”  
  
“Why do you think you are going back to the service?” Hani raises his head, Leila looks surprised.   
  
“Why am I not?”   
  
“Because you are my wife.”  
  
“What does it change?”  
  
“A lot.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Leila an analyst,” Ferris talks like giving out the cards. ”Her mother is Italian, but Leila grew up in Amman. She didn't study in Amman though. Her mother insisting on getting a European education for her.”  
  
“Why do you think so?” Hoffman leans back in a plastic chair as though it's leather. His nose under the baseball cap flakes off, he doesn't miss his son's games in the summer.  
  
“I learned from you,” Ferris smiles lifelessly. “So, she's a political analyst with a degree in social economics. Sounds just like a person to recruit.”  
  
“Yep, but not for us,” Hoffman sighs. “If one was able to get Hani through Leila, it would be done a long time ago.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Why wouldn't we talk about that? We are both his wives, there's no sense in hating each other till the grave,” Leila follows Firuze across the hall, the flaps of her long, narcissus yellow shirt are fluttering. Scarf from her head moved to her shoulders, Leila throws it off irritatedly and shoves into the pocket of her chinos.   
  
"Are you really satisfied with what you have? Sitting in four walls, raising children. You've been studying art, don't you want to go back to it?"  
  
“There's nothing to talk about. You and your demands are the trouble. He is angry because of you because you are stubborn and don't know your place. Why did you come to me for, asking me to make a revolution against my husband? He was loving and caring before you have come.”  
  
Firuze is dressed in dark green and black, her moves are swift and sharp, she picks toys from the floor hastily, moving up and down like a machine. Leila tries to help, but Firuze is faster. She throws toys what are mostly colorful dinosaurs and human-like robots on the table before Leila even reaches them. A servant woman appears in the doors, Firuze gives her a look and she disappears a blink of an eye.  
  
“I don't know my place,” Leila straightens up, with hands crossed over her chest she gives Firuze an indulgent look. "Do you really think a man values a woman if she acts like a servant to him and his children? Hani has European point of view at all of this. I assume it's you who insisted on thing going Jordanian way, and now it influences me too. That's why I came to talk to you."  
  
“Hani has a European point of view on his family? It must explain really well why he is married twice due to sharia law, and not once like in the West you adore,” Firuze straightens up, too, her upper lips twitch with contempt. “Because we are not in Europe. We are in our country, we are living by the laws of our country, which Hani knows well, believe me. I am the mother of his children. I know my responsibilities and do them well. I don't make him regret marrying me despite unlike you.”  
  
Firuze is prettier than Leila and she knows that. She has a handsome face with delicate features, her skin is in the color of camel's milk with a touch of coffee. After giving birth to two children she didn't gain weight, she became even thinner and looks like a model from the covering of Harper's Bazaar. This sense of superiority flares in her eyes when she looks at Leila.  
  
“You just take away the time she should spend with me and my children,” Firuze throws into Leila's face as Leila is taken aback by her fierce respond. "You amused him, and that's all. He doesn't even need you. What he needs is a decent woman for a wife, and this woman is not you."   
  
“I'm not taking his time,” Leila swings a little, she puts her hand on the table, making a deep breath. Her hands are shaky, Firuze smiles coldly when seeing it. “He comes to me because we can talk as equals, and not only about children and home.”  
  
“What can you talk to him about? What can you know I don't?” Firuze comes to Leila so close she nearly stomps at her feet. Leila moves back, stumbling on scattered toys, dinosaurs legs, and Lego parts. Firuze spits into Leila's face when she gets Leila into the corner between the table and the sofa. “ You took away my husband from me and you dare to accuse me of being a no match for him. Who are you to tell me this, kafir?”  
  
Leila knows the word, she blushes when she hears it. Firuze burns her with her eyes, her chin is up, she standing like a victor. Leila's blood boils, and she rushes forward, stepping on Firuze's shoes.  
  
“Yours – and mine – husband is not a thing to be taken away. Did you – did you even want to marry him, or did he want to marry you? Your marriage was a mistake. It's you who should ask him for divorce.”  
  
A slap sounds like a gunshot. Leila straightens her shoulders, her face is red, there's a scratch on her cheek, the trace of the ruby ring Firuze uses to hide in her palm. Firuze is pale as snow, her jaws are clenched so tide Leila can see it perfectly shaped under the strained skin. Children are playing in the garden, they can see them but cannot hear because of a thick window glass.   
  
There's a reflection in the mirror on the wall. Hani is standing in the doorway, his suit is sharp though dark circles under his eyes betray the lack of sleep. His eyes are red from smoke and tiredness, his face is dark and angry. When he speaks, his voice is heard well.  
  
“I need no explanations for this, I've heard enough. Leila, go to my car. The driver will take you home.”  
  
“My home or your home?” Leila asks with a challenge, Hani isn't even moving his eyebrow, his spine is firm like a ruler.  
  
“Our home.”  
  
“I...” Leila starts. Hani interrupts her abruptly.  
  
“You heard what I said, Leila. Leave us now.”  
  
Firuze looks jubilant, Leila clenches her teeth.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Hani Salaam's elder wife, Firuze, accused him of spending more time with Leila,” Hoffman twist a lighter in his fingers. "Yet due to the sharia law time must be shared equally among a certain amount of wives. Three of four, I don't remember the limit."  
  
“I couldn't cope with one woman,” Ferris looks into his lap gloomily. “Hani couldn't cope with two. I would say it's funny but it doesn't fucking help.”  
  
“It didn't help even when you tried to punch me,” Hoffman leans on the table. “Personal life is not an operation to plan or a meeting to schedule. It always makes a loud crack if you don't take it seriously.”  
  
“It makes a crack and falls apart even when you do, but don't do it right,” Ferris looks at his ring finger. It's obviously a finger except for a ring. Finger without the ring looks naked and empty as tough peeled both from meat and skin.   
  
“Welcome to the club,” Hoffman nods. “No matter how impenetrable Hani looks he is just like us. Maybe with more women and different ducks on a bathroom curtain.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Hani comes home late. Leila hears his steps as he comes up the staircase, sonant on the mosaic floor, she turns to the wall and pretends she is sleeping. Hani comes into the bedroom and stands over the bed, he smells heavy with cigar smoke, and still, Leila can scent Firuze's hair oil, her body oil as well, musky sandal which never really leaves the cloth it sticks into.  
  
“You know who I am and what is my work. Still, you are driving attention to me with your quarrels with Firuze. Do you find what I give you as a husband, not enough? Tell me, Leila,” Hani says after being silent for an eternity.   
  
Leila  touches the corner of the pillow with her little finger. Hani's shadow on the wall looks long, as an obelisk. There so many unspoken words she doesn't know what to start for. She wants to accuse him, yet he has Firuze's words in her head: if Hani is so Western and modern-thinking, why did he decided to marry twice?   
  
“I valued you high, I considered you intelligent, so outstandingly smart. I was mistaken,” Hani proceeds with disgust. "The scene I happened to so was... Outrageous. You and Firuze, I knew it would be difficult, but it all had gone too far."  
  
“This is the words of a man who married a woman who said she didn't want kids and didn't make a good Muslim wife,” his intonation flares her up. Leila sits up, throwing away the blanket, Hani puts his knee on the bed sheet, leaning to her menacingly.  
  
“Your worst vice is that you never know when it's time to remain silent. You agreed to become my wife, so you accepted the responsibilities. And you just throw them away because you want it to be your way and nobody's else.”  
  
"You lied to me," Leila bursts out with everything she had to hold back for so long. "You told me you love my freedom, you would never put a burka on me, and now you lock me up in four walls and Firuze says it has always been this way for you and her! Why did you marry me for, for the life of a housewife?"  
  
"I adored your freedom of thinking, but there're certain limits for a married woman as well as for a married man," when Hani starts to speak, his eyes darken with anger. The way he holds it back is scary, but Leila is full of anger herself, it only makes her furious.  
  
“I want a divorce,” Leila hollers in Hani's face. "I don't want to be your wife anymore. You promised me it will be civilized, and now I have it back to Jordanian ways. If I wanted a Jordanian husband, I would at least choose one who wouldn't be married."  
  
Leila is ready for a responsive outburst, but Hani remains silent. He stands up and leans over the wall, his hands in his pockets again. His face darkened when he was angry, darkness slowly yields to yellowish paleness. He touches his hair, behind time Leila realizes the nervousness of the gesture.  
  
“Good,” he nods. “I'm glad to hear that we came to an agreement.”  
  
Hani walks across the room, Leila looks at him as sits on the corner of the bed. He looks into the window, Leila clasps her fingers nervously. She feels so overwhelmed, and Hani looks as lost as she is. She is nearly sympathetic to him, still, she says reluctantly, “A man shouldn't have two wives.”  
  
“Maybe. It's not forbidden yet.”  
  
“If you were allowed to marry only one woman, and you were not so...” Leila starts, and interrupts herself, “I thought it would be another way. I thought you would be another way.”  
  
“I thought you would understand me. We were both mistaken as you see.”  
  
“I couldn't live like Firuze in any way.”  
  
“I know,” Hani says. Leila takes his hand, his fingers are cold. The night is warm, and she is freezing next to him. She can't get warm.  
  
“I feel hurt,” she confesses. “I want you to be hurt more, but it hurts me so much.”  
  
Hani looks at her, he has sick eyes. Leila embraces him squeezing her arms, she holds him so tight he gasps and pushes her away. They sit on the bed opposite to each other, exchanging wild glances.  
  
“Do you want to kill me in your arms?” he asks. Leila shakes her head and says, “Yes.”  
  
“Why do you shake your head then?”  
  
“Because I can't do it to you,” she clenches her teeth. “You can hurt me, and I can't hurt you.”  
  
“You are mistaken. I can't hurt you.”  
  
He grabs Leila's face with the palms of his hands, Leila closes her eyes, it's too much to see his eyes now. He presses his forehead to hers, he sighs and she feels his breath on her mouth.  
  
“Let me go,” she takes hold his wrists with her eyes closed. “Why is it for now?”  
  
Something cool and smooth is moving down his arm, touching inside her palm. It's a bracelet, Leila remembers. She remembers it after she starts, before Hani puts hand on her shoulder, touching her cheek with his thumb.  
  
“I remember your uncles dancing dabke on the wedding. It's was hard to bring them back to the tables,” he says quietly.  
  
“If you were desperately waiting for your nephew's marriage, you would be jumping across the hall with a shawl too,” Leila nods. It's wet under her eyelids, tears gathering before the waterfall.  “I love you. But I just can't do this anymore.”  
  
“I love you more than you know. So much, I make mistakes. I don't want a divorce,” Hani squeezes Leila's shoulder and Leila opens her eyes.   
  
His eyes are still red and tired, and her eyes are vague with tears. She wants to shove him away. Instead, she embraces him, hiding her face in his shoulder. Hani holds her tight as she starts crying.   
  
  
***  
  
  
“So they didn't really divorce,” Hoffman says. He has run out of fries. He tosses another paper plate into the wastebasket, nearly exploding with cups and napkins. “Hani is a lucky bastard. Two wives and he still comes out dry from the water.”  
  
“Hani found a way to convince them. On the surface, everyone is okay with that. In fact, Firuze believes she deserves more time. Leila doesn't even want to discuss it, she considers Hani's first marriage as a nuisance. Hani made clear for them both everything remains as it is,” Ferris waves his hands. “Getting divorced is easier than all of this. Especially considering what's happened next.”  
  
“Even the moon has a darker side,” Hoffman says with pleasure. “Let me guess, Firuze complains and it brings to the board her father, not the last man in the country. This man thinks that Hani spoils his second wife because he is turned to the West too much.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
When Hani arrives, they meet in the doorway. Hani picks up his younger son and kisses Firuze. Firuze doesn't look at him much. She turns her cheek for a kiss and embraces Hani as he enters.   
  
Everything is ready for the dinner, she even manages to force her sons into changing shirts. Now they both are wearing white polo shirts, Firuze looking at them with suspect. She knows how little time boys need to make white dirty.  
  
“I want my children to see their grandfather more often. They can live in my parent's house for a couple of months. I will be visiting them,” Firuze says as they make a prayer. She brings the dishes from the kitchen by herself, her cook only needs to put them in the right order.  
  
It's respectful for the husband to do everything right. Hani used to say "Inshallah" and smiled when Firuze told him what she chose for a dinner, sometimes winked. Now he only nods and says he is a lucky man for having such a great wife and cook. The words are common, Firuze's heart goes cold.  
  
“Children must be with their father,” Hani grabs the glass of water and makes a vague gesture. “They can go see their grandparents on holidays.”  
  
The water is splashing, Firuze wants to tell him to be more careful, but she passes that move. Hani frowns, he doesn't like the idea. The boys are chewing silently, they are not even listening. Firuze tries another move.  
  
“They see their father once in a week,” she takes the salad bowl. She puts salad first in Hani's plate, then in her plate, trying to sound reasonable. “What's the difference? If they are visiting their grandfather, we could spend more time together.”  
  
“We are spending a lot of time together, my dear. And we have a good time every time I come,” Hani looks at his sons. Jamil shows his thumb, the thumb is covered with blue clay Firuze didn't manage to cleanse.   
  
“Dinosaurs rock!”  
  
Nasir puts his elbows on the table and gnaws a piece of cucumber, pierced with his fork, tilting his head like a little turtle. Hani frowns again, but it's a regular frown, a father's one.   
  
“Nasir. We were talking about that.”  
  
“Sorry,” Nasir mumbles, straightening up and drawing his elbows from the table.  
  
“It would be better if you lived with us,” Firuze says stubbornly. Hani ignores her, and it hurts much, but she knows how to stand up for herself. “Changing places does no good for your sons. They need stability. Our family needs stability.”  
  
“My sons will be never spared of my attention,” Hani cuts the beef, adhering it with a fork gently. His manners are so good and speech so well-paced, Firuze wants to slap him across the face. “Just like my wives. Everything else remains the same.”  
  
When Hani goes to the bedroom, full and placid, Firuze makes sure he is asleep and presses her father's number on the home phone buttons. She takes the receiver and walks into the kitchen, she closes the door and draws the chair to the open window. There are yellow lanterns in the garden, the gardener is checking on the flowers and fixing the soaking hoses. Firuze watches him, pressing her hand to her forehead. She feels devastated as if she was an Intelligence chief instead of Hani.  
  
"I am tired. I do everything it takes and he...He has changed. He looks the same, even talks the same, but I feel the difference. It has started when she came to quarrel and I slapped her. I shouldn't do that, I didn't know he was looking."  
  
“She offended you in your house, you were hasty, but not exactly wrong. Your husband works a lot, but with Leila he forgets what is really important,” Firuze's father says calmly, making deep, reasonable pauses between the sentences. Firuze remains silent, breathing into the receiver intermittently, her head is swollen with a migraine and thoughts. “It's important to be a good husband and a father.”  
  
“He lives with her in downtown. She does nothing for him. Nothing like me, no better than I do. She doesn't care for the home much, she wants to be back to work so he has to make her behave. She can't even give him a child,” Firuze says, opening the drawer. She takes out a silver fork and tilts it in her fingers, squinting. It's clean, but there's a small dark spot under the stalk.   
  
“You are faithful to your husband, you do everything a good woman should. But does your husband do the same for you? If your husband doesn't value your faithfulness, you should give it to your family instead,” father's tone of voice changed. It sounds soft now, it sounds convincing.   
  
“He is my family, too,” there's unrest in Firuze's voice. Firuze heard it several times, she always had the temper to refuse. Her father interrupts her, as though he feels her doubt through the phone lines.  
  
“If Hani is your family, why do you call me, complain and ask for my help?”  
  
“Because I love him,” Firuze purses her lips. “And he doesn't listen to me. I don't want him to... I just want her to be gone.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Hani's father-in-law, Jarir Rabah, is a boring man. Ferris is bored when tracing him. He does business, makes Mohammedan prayers, he meets people in suits and haircuts, with people in suits and keffiyehs, with people in djellabas and keffiyehs. It's getting interesting only when he goes ashore for “oil negotiations”. Ferris feels his hound dog's instinct tickling" that's it.   
  
The major contractor in the area of pipeline construction doesn't have to attend minor transactions in person, but Jarir Rabah tells his secretary to reschedule all his current meetings for this one. The customer is Jarir Rabah's old friend, it would be impolite if the meeting was held by somebody else. Especially, so far from the city. Especially, if his way to the shore of the Red Sea.  
  
Jarir Rabah drives to the shore through the desert, and it makes a big retour. Ferris follows him until it starts sandstorming. When the big black cars drive out the storm, he feels fear and relief. At least, he is not dying in the desert. He still may be dying later, if not having a reason sufficient enough for Hani to spy on the father of his elder wife.  
  
“How do you think, why Ed Hoffman still keeps his place, and I keep mine?” Hani asks when Ferris gets in his car. He talks quietly, but Ferris is sweating, Hani is quiet only before the storm. “Because he thinks he knows everything until I correct him.”  
  
“Don't you think that Jarir Rabah...” Ferris starts cautiously, Hani interrupts him in an unusually harsh manner.  
  
“I know what Jarir Rabah is doing. Also, I know that this time Hoffman crossed the line. Thanks to you, mister Ferris,” every Hani's word is like a hit of the whip. “Thanks to your ability to listen, but not to wait. I'm surprised you believed that you can know things from me I don't want you to know without my permission. Take it as you had it. You chose to use it wrong.”  
  
Ferris is so disappointed he wants to shout and hit the door of the car with his fist, yet the shame makes him control himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hoffman believed it was a good start, Ferris had a bad feeling about that, he made the feeling shut up, so he's fucked up, and the worse thing is he's fucked up in Hani's eyes.  
  
Looking at thin, peremptory Hani's lips moving, Ferris thinks about the conversation that led him into the desert. The one that nearly makes him believe Hani isn't so perfect he seems to him, and, maybe, many others, much closer to what Hoffman used to say about him.  
  
“How was the dinner with the woman you didn't want to have then, and don't want to leave now?” Leila speaks quietly, as though pressing the receiver with her cheek to her shoulder. There's a sound of clicking, it must be a keyboard, she must be typing while talking.   
  
“Not like a dinner with the woman who wanted to be my wife and now tries to cut my heart out,” Hani chuckles, and Leila chuckles in response.  
  
“It's not the first time when the wind blowing from the desert carries the virtue away,” she makes a sound like liking her lips, wet and quick smack which makes Ferris feel the goosebumps on the back of his neck and under the collarbones. “Do you want me to read to you aloud, don't you?”  
  
“You will read me aloud once I'm back,” Hani promises. There's a soft little sigh, a change of breathing, it's surprisingly easy to imagine how Hani touches his bristled cheek and says with a whole different intonation, oscillating like a rebab, “Habibti.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
“So, what exactly has happened?” Hoffman asks, yawning.  
  
“He baited me, hacked me and thew me out before I knew. Before I knew anything. You were wrong. If I didn't listen to you, I would be still in Amman.”


End file.
